Russell Pritchard, 62, retired municipal storm drain systems auditor, had not deviated from his weekly routine once in the eight years since his wife Elaine died. Up at 6 a.m. sharp, black coffee with exactly one teaspoon of sugar, three-mile walk before 8, Tuesday woodworking at the community center, Saturday morning breakfast at the dive bar on 37th, no exceptions. He hated surprises, hated mess, hated anything that didn’t fit the neat boxes he’d built for every part of his life.
The neighborhood block party was the only exception he’d allowed all year, and only because the HOA president had cornered him in his driveway three times begging him to man the grill. He’d agreed on the condition he got to set the cook time per patty, no exceptions. He was on his 27th burger, grease flecked on the cuff of his faded gray flannel, when he smelled it: jasmine and turpentine, sharp and sweet, cutting through the charcoal and burger grease.
He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Marnie. 48, Elaine’s second cousin, traveling glass blower, the woman who’d moved into the house next door two years prior and upended every quiet assumption he had about his side of the street. She blasted Patsy Cline at 2 a.m. when she was firing pieces in her backyard kiln, left half-finished glass sculptures on her front porch, disappeared for weeks at a time for shows across the Pacific Northwest. He’d avoided her as much as possible, partly because her chaos grated on his need for order, partly because every time she smiled at him, his chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt since Elaine was alive. It felt wrong. She was family, for one thing. Half the neighborhood thought of her as his kid cousin, for Christ’s sake.
“Mind if I grab a cheeseburger?” Her shoulder brushed his as she leaned against the grill table, barefoot, cutoff jean shorts, a faded Willie Nelson tee, fine silvery glass dust dusting the pale skin of her forearms. She was holding a mason jar full of pale peach liquid, condensation beading down the sides. When he glanced down, her knee was pressed to his, warm through the thin fabric of his work pants. He fumbled the spatula, nearly dropped a burger on the ground. She laughed, low and throaty, and handed him the jar. “Peach moonshine. Made it myself. You look like you need a drink that’s not that sad black coffee you chug all day.”
He took a sip without thinking. It was sweet, burned going down, settled warm in his stomach. He told himself he was just being polite. Told himself the jolt he felt when their fingers brushed as he handed the jar back was just the moonshine. “Heard you were in Boise,” he said, flipping a burger, keeping his eyes on the grill. He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to get caught staring at the smattering of freckles across her nose, the way her dark hair fell in loose waves down her back.
“Got back last night.” She shifted closer, so their elbows were touching now. “Brought you something.” She pulled a small object out of her shorts pocket, pressed it into his palm. It was a glass paperweight, shaped like a raindrop, swirled with tiny flecks of deep blue, warm from being against her skin. “Remember you used to tell Elaine about all the rain you’d catch in those drain maps you made? Thought it was fitting.”
He held it, turning it over in his hand. The glass was smooth, cool against his calloused fingers, the blue flecks catching the late August sun. He felt that tightness in his chest again, sharper this time, tangled up with guilt. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be taking gifts from her, shouldn’t be enjoying the way her leg was still pressed to his. This was a betrayal of Elaine, of the life he’d built, of the routine that kept him from falling apart after she died. He almost handed it back, almost made an excuse to leave, when she spoke again, soft enough only he could hear.
“Elaine knew I had a crush on you, you know. Teased me about it every Thanksgiving. Told me once, if she ever went first, I needed to look after you. Said you were the most stubborn man alive, and you’d forget how to have fun if someone didn’t make you.”
He froze, mid-flip, the burger sizzling on the grill. He’d never heard that before. Never thought Elaine would even consider something like that. He looked up at her, finally, and she was holding his gaze, no smirk, no teasing, just soft, honest brown eyes. He felt the wall he’d built around himself for eight years crack, just a little. The guilt was still there, tangled up with desire, with the quiet loneliness he’d carried for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to not be lonely.
They slipped away from the block party ten minutes later, after he handed off grill duty to the college kid who lived two houses down. They walked down the dirt path behind their houses to the small creek that ran through the neighborhood, the sky fading pink and purple at the edges, fireflies flickering in the trees along the bank. She sat down on a fallen oak log, patted the spot next to her, and he sat, no overthinking, no planning, just sat. Their thighs pressed together, warm in the cooling dusk, and she leaned in, kissed him slow.
He didn’t pull away. The kiss tasted like peach moonshine and mint, her hand on the back of his neck, calloused from years of working with hot glass, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be touched like that, like someone actually wanted to be there, not like they were just checking a box on a routine list. The guilt didn’t disappear, exactly, but it softened, settled somewhere quiet in the back of his mind, drowned out by the sound of the creek rushing, the distant hum of the block party music, the way her hair fell against his cheek when she pulled back to smile at him.
They sat there for an hour, talking about her shows, about the old storm drain maps he kept stacked in his garage, about Elaine, no pressure, no plans for what came next. He tucked the raindrop paperweight into the breast pocket of his flannel, felt its light weight against his chest, and didn’t check his watch once for the rest of the night.
